Saw this at the excellent House of Marketing website. "Show Me Your Sloggi" is a nifty little online social community where you can upload pics of your arse, and get people to vote on it.
Show Me Your Sloggi
As one can see from the above banner, blokes can also upload pics if they wish, but it's not really encouraged. Sloggi seems to be a brand of sexy underwear that I'm not familiar with, as I tend to be quite loyal to my conservative white cottons with pee stains on them.
Sloggi - Sexy Underwear
It's a fun way to kill some time on a lazy Tuesday, and there are quite a few belters to vote on.
"1000 Tiny Things I Hate" is a blog by a British guy called Jon Brown, who writes about, well, the 1000 tiny things in life that he hates. Here with an extract:
#0091. PUTTING ON THE ADULT CHANNEL FOR A BIT, "JUST FOR A LAUGH."
Because here's what happens when one of your mates puts on some TV-based grot, just for a laugh -- no one actually laughs.
There's maybe a couple of nervous chuckles to begin with, possibly the odd, "Hello! Don't get many of them to the pound."
But then it all goes quiet.
And suddenly, you become aware that you're surrounded by your friends, and they've all got erections. And you then it hits you. This isn't ironic any more: you're just watching pornography with other men.
And that way, dear reader, lies the Circle Jerk.
Do yourself a favour and take a walk over to his site - http://tinythingsihate.blogspot.com - I spent the last 15 minutes there, and I have literally pissed myself.
I don't know how I'm going to explain myself out of this one however, because I'm wearing camel chinos so there is no real way of hiding it. Thus, humiliation awaits me.
It was a warm and blustery Thursday and I was busy diffusing a bomb. Just as I was about to cut the decisive wire, my cellphone rang with a shrill blast - causing my partner to leap up to the ceiling, like a feral cat that's just been shot with a potato gun by the overweight kid from next door who doesn't have any real friends but pretends that he's happy all the same.
"Is that Cape Town's Favourite Son?" said an unnaturally happy sounding man on the other line.
"As far as I know," I said without a hint of sarcasm. I was still Cape Town's favourite son as far as I knew, although I was getting a little anxious about the new guy that kept buying Cape Town 15 year old bottles of brandy whenever we had a braai.
"My name is [muffled], and I'm phoning from Cell C," said the Happy Guy. He then proceeded to tell me about the amazing offer I had just earned, consisting of a brand spanking new cell phone - I believe it was a Nokia - and then going into his whole sales pitch about how awesome the phone was, whilst stressing that it was free etc. At the end he mentioned something about changing over to a Cell C contract, which is where I assumed the catch would then come into play. Make no mistake, there is ALWAYS a catch.
Anyhoo, I let him finish his bit, as it had been a while since someone has actually called me, and I liked the attention. I suddenly had a horrible epiphany of how lonely it would be as an old man, smelling of old coin with just the hint of urine, and talking about the cost of electricity and the cabbage I had just stolen. Shrugging of those morbid thoughts, I wiped away the tears and cleared my throat.
"Thanks, it sounds amazing," I replied, "but I'm not going to be taking up your offer, I'm quite happy with my cellphone and- ".
I didn't get a chance to finish, as I heard the dialing tone in my ear.
I COULDN'T quite believe it, but Happy Guy actually had the audacity to PUT THE PHONE DOWN on me whilst I was in mid-sentence. Have you ever? He didn't even have the decency to say "thanks and good bye" or "sorry you're not taking up the offer."
I found this amazing, don't they record calls for quality purposes? How could he just put the phone down on me as soon as it seemed I wasn't interested? Do they have such tight targets that they cannot afford to waste any time politely ending the call? Which wire was I going to cut?
These were the questions racing through my mind thereafter.
Cell C - Ombeskof
F*ck you Cell C. Your adverts may be fairly decent, and I like your corporate colours, but your sales staff appear to be a bunch of arseholes, and on principle I will now never consider taking up a contract with you.
You: Thanks again for dropping me at home. Friend: Not a problem, it's out of my way, but I went through your wallet when you passed out earlier, so you're effectively paying for the lift. You: Jesus, I murdered those shooters tonight. I'm so hammered I think I'm actually wearing someone else's shoes. When did this happen? Friend: Oh, that was also earlier on when we found you lying on the floor. You didn't move for a while. We actually thought you were dead at one stage because you didn't seem to be breathing. You: No that's fine, it's just a weird medical condition I have. It used to freak the shit out of my parents when I was a baby. Friend: I can see why. You were clinically dead for about 12 minutes. You: Ja, it happens. Anyways, I actually wanted to speak to you tonight though. Friend: Oh? You: Ja, listen - I know you have a thing for Michelle, but I don't really dig her vibe. Friend: Well I- You: Just let me finish. Look, I'm sure she's a nice girl, but I think she's a bit below you to be honest. She's got this desperate vibe about her, I can't really explain it, but whenever I'm in her company that's the vibe I always pick up - "desperate". Friend: Okay but- You: Also, I don't know if you've noticed this, but she kind of smells like car freshener, like those little trees that you hang in the front? It's like a musky plastic - which is awesome for cars, but doesn't go down so well for women, you know what I mean? Anyway, I think you can do so much better than Michelle.
[silence]
Michelle: So you just take a right at the robots and then I'm in the next road to your left.
[AWKWARD silence]
Moral of the story - if you're going to bad mouth someone, always check that they're not in the backseat behind you at the time.
And then, "Mmm, I wouldn't mind some roasted peanuts right about now", because that's generally what you yearn for after you take a blow to the testes.
Strange, but true.
The Nutcracker.
As always, if it says that "This Video Is No Longer Available", don't stress, YouTube are big liars. Just go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dONtFBuCztM and press "Ctrl" and "F5" until it plays.
Loud rock music, an abundance of hot women, and copious amounts of alcohol - all this and more can usually be found at one of the regular parties held at The HQ.
And other ones, although their names escape me now.
We all remember last year's event, which I didn't really attend, but pretended that I did, and claimed the photographs that The Girlfriend actually took. This year I will be gracing the festival with my presence, and so decided to apply my mind and think of five things that I would need to get through the weekend.
1) The Girlfriend - It goes without
saying that The Girlfriend will be at my side, making sure I don't fall in ditches, dongas and other divots in the ground. This happens to me because I suffer from a problem with my inner ear, which is responsible for balance, as well as the distribution of ear wax. As everyone knows, I produce copious amounts of ear wax, and use them to make organic candles, which I then sell at the Neighbourhood Market at the old Biscuit Mill in Woodstock. The Girlfriend will also ensure that I behave myself, and if I do step out of line, will not hesitate to beat the soles of my feet with strips of droe wors, which is the worst form of punishment known to man.
2) Beer -
Sure, there will be booze on sale, but there will probably be staggeringly long queues. Apparently last year, the lines for beer went all the way to Cape Town, ending somewhere in Orange street. Thus, I will be bringing through about 17 trays of Hansa Marzen Golds, so this should keep us ticking over for the first night at least.
3) Reading Material -
I'm pretty sure there will be a quiet lull in proceedings, which would be a perfect opportunity to whip out the trusty Cosmo magazine, my favourite ladies mag, and the only publication I read when I'm lying on the toilet floor.
4) Geld -
At some point I will need to eat or drink something besides beer, as some people have been known to die if that is not the case. Obviously then, I will need some money - I don't know if there will be ATM's there, so will probably be carrying massive amounts of unmarked bills on me. This will ensure that I always have money at hand, as well as setting me up as a potential target for a vicious mugging.
5) Derek Watts - Probably not likely, as we're not really that close anymore since the whole "Wakame incident" a few months back, but it would be awesome if Derek would be part of my posse, as he is a f**king legend. Knowing him, he would probably be right in the thick of things, moshing away with all the rock junkies in their combat boots.
I'm not usually a follower of this "Olympic Games" thing, which is currently taking place in Beijing - I watched when I was younger, but ever since Hansie Cronje admitted to throwing the 110m hurdles, I've just sort of lost interest. I think we should all take a moment to highlight the achievements of Michael Phelps though, who - at the time of writing - has just won his 11th gold medal, a new record for an Olympic athlete.
Michael Phelps won the men's 200-meter butterfly Wednesday and not even an hour later helped lift the U.S. 4x200m freestyle relay team to victory, becoming the winningest athlete in Olympic history, now with 11 gold medals -- and counting.
The U.S. men didn't just set the world record, they destroyed it. Their 6:58.56 was 4.68 seconds faster than the previous record, also set by the U.S. men at the 2007 World Championships. Phelps swam a 1:43 31 leading off the relay, just short of his personal best, and the world record, set the day before in winning the 200m freestyle. Ryan Lochte, Ricky Berens and Peter Vanderkaay did the rest, as the silver medalists from Russia finished more than five seconds behind.
"For four years we knew we could probably get under 7 minutes," Lochte said in a poolside interview with NBC. "It's great to finally do it." Phelps is now five-for-five in Beijing, with a world record in every final. In the first of his two races, Phelps touched in 1:52.03 for his fourth gold medal and fourth world record in Beijing. The mark had been 1:52.09, set by Phelps at the 2007 Worlds. [via NBC]
Nice one Mikey! Clearly those training sessions at Frankie Frog swimming school have paid off.
I learnt how to swim at Frankie Frog school, I was a f**king legend in the pool, and thus have a COMPLETE progress book with ALL my stickers (up to level 12) to prove it.
Anyhoo,
I'm not sure what exactly "winningest" means, but I think it means "ladies man". Michael Phelps is definitely a ladies man, as one can clearly see.
Michael Phelps - Ladies Man
Oh come on, I'm not being sarcastic - I genuinely believe so. God, you people are so shallow, you're thinking that he's weird looking, aren't you?
He's not, and even if he was, he's a great swimmer, so he will be able to pull chicks anyway.
I used to do this on the hallowed playgrounds of Catholic primary school, as I thought it made me look hot to the girls whilst simultaneously scaring the guys. (Kung fu films were pretty big in the 80's)
The Spanish basketball team at the Olympics decided to do the same though, although it didn't get the same reaction.
Spain's Olympic basketball teams have risked upsetting their Chinese hosts by posing for a pre-Games advert making slit-eyed gestures. The advert for a courier company, which is an official sponsor of the Spanish Basketball Federation, occupied a full page in the sports daily Marca, the country's best-selling newspaper.
The advert features two large photographs, one of the men's basketball team, above, and one of the women's team. Both squads pose in full Olympic kit on a basketball court decorated with a picture of a Chinese dragon. Every single player appears pulling back the skin on either side of their eyes. The advert carries the symbol of the sport's governing body.
No one involved in the advert appears to have considered it inappropriate nor contemplated the manner in which it could be interpreted in China and elsewhere. No offence was intended by the advert, but whether the Chinese see it that way is a different matter and it is likely to provoke more criticism at a delicate time for Spanish sport. The failure to recognise the potential consequences is striking in the light of the problems Spain has had with issues of race and the Spanish Olympic committee's continued desire to host the Games in Madrid in 2016 or 2020. [via The Guardian UK]
After earlier incidents, it looks like no one seems to have any respect for the Chinese.
However, the main talking point here though is the fact that there seems to be a WOMEN'S basketball team representing Spain, I mean, how silly is that?
Tuesday evening found me floating around the parking area of Gardens Centre in Cape Town, like a care-free young pigeon that's just been released over the skies above Table Mountain, but can't remember where he's flying, because the bread crumbs he was given by the kind old lady in her Oranjezicht garden contained traces of LSD.
What was I doing there? I wasn't exactly sure. The grocery list crudely stapled to my hand suggested that this was some sort of shopping expedition, organised by The Girlfriend, who I had recently rewarded with a metallic blue stapler to commemorate our 2 year anniversary. (I believe it's referred to as the Wax Paper Anniversary)
I had just ripped the note from my flesh, and was trying to stem the subsequent bleeding, when I heard someone call out in pidgin English - "Excuse me, sir". I ignored it at first, as I often hear voices in pidgin English since I stopped taking my medication, but he proved to be a persistent bugger and jumped in my path, causing me to shriek in a lady-like manner.
"What the f**k do you want from me?" I requested, once I had composed myself and stopped sobbing. I had a vivid flashback of an evil charity volunteer, and wasn't ready for another encounter.
The man, a wild eyed gentleman who looked as if he had spent his formative years rolling around in dirt and broken dreams, explained that his car had run out of gas, and that he needed "just a few odds for petrol in order to get his wife and baby home." They were seated in his car, which was CONVENIENTLY parked on the very top level whilst we were in the basement.
I had heard this story a few years before, outside the FNB in Claremont one Friday night. I was pretty hammered then, and on that occasion was talked into giving the guy R70, after promising to call me and arrange repayment as soon as he dropped his wife and baby at home (they were seated in the car around the corner).
Obviously I never heard from him again, and had to spend the rest of that week selling Big Issue vendors to Big Issue, in order to get by and make my rent. Since then, I had learnt my lesson - and vowed never to be taken for a ride again - and so the thought of telling off this chancer excited me greatly, giving me a bit of a semi in the process, which probably unsettled him a little as I was wearing skimpy shorts - the shiny ones that were quite popular in the 80's, and which I was now trying to revive.
"So, meneer" I began respectfully, "you're saying you have NO petrol to make it home?"
"Ja, man" he replied, "I have NO petrol to make it home."
I found it annoying that he virtually repeated me word for word, but I carried on nonetheless, preparing to deliver the coup de grace, as they say in Fresnaye.
"What then," I mused, "are you doing in a shopping mall? Shouldn't you be at a garage?"
"Huh?" he said, as he realised his story held no water.
"Shouldn't you be at a garage?" I continued.
"Huh?" he said again.
"Shouldn't you be at a garage?" I continued.
"Huh?" he said again.
"Shouldn't you be at a garage?" I continued.
"Huh?" he said again.
"Shouldn't you be at a garage?" I pressed.
"...Huh?" he said once more.
"Hiiiyaaa!" I said, as I launched a flying kick to his head, knocking him several feet back.
"That will teach you to try and con people out of money, you...you... con artist!" I shrieked in a lady-like manner again, only this time I didn't sob.
"What are you doing?!?" screamed his wife, who had just turned the corner with their baby. "Why did you fly kick my husband in the head?"
...
...
Ha, that would have been funny. But no, he just rolled around a couple of times, then got up and ran for the hills. Lavender Hills. There was no wife and baby. He was just a con artist, looking for money. And I had fly kicked him in the head.
It's clearly Tuesday today (ignore what your brain is telling you, it's not REALLY Wednesday, it's just what the MAN wants you to believe) and we don't really have anything of substance to write. So just watch the following YouTube video below. You will thank me later.
It's Monday, and what better way to start the week than with a sports column, written by me?
Seriously, that isn't a rhetorical question, if you can think of a better way to spend a Monday, then please email me at info@yourmother.com. Yeah, that's right, I'm in a bit of a mood this morning, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, and now I'm wearing The Girlfriend's high heels, which is rather pretty and shows off my lovely ankles but isn't as comfortable as you would think.
Anyhoo, here with an extract from the latest little ditty:
What a great time to be a Protea fan. No, I'm not referring to the flower, although I suppose this would also be a good time as Spring is almost upon us. I am of course referring to the Proteas, our national cricketers. The last time I was this excited about South African cricket, Hansie Cronje was being coerced by the Devil, and making some extra pocket money on the side. The game has hopefully cleaned up considerably since then, which makes my heightened optimism all the greater.Read More.
I gamble with my life every morning on Hospital Bend, I gamble with my health whenever I burn The Girlfriend's Sunday toast, and I gamble some of my vast riches on the various lotto games available in South Africa.
At least, I USED to play the local lotto games, until I discovered the European Lottery, which kicks the games we have in South Africa squarely in the balls, squashing both testicles in the process, I might add. After all, why use up all your luck winning a paltry R2 million, when you can go big and win R640 million?
Yes, it may sound cool to call yourself a "millionaire", but the fact is that R2 millions is NOT going to get you that holiday villa in Clifton, the flashy Italian sports car, or the Russian bimbo with the boob job and coke habit.
So the R640 million would obviously be more to your liking. That's the current jackpot, after a rollover last week. I've been playing for the last couple of months, and I have already won thousands of rarnts (payouts are in Euros, so it's x 12).
So how does one play?
Firstly, go to the Euro Millions website and register. (It's just your name, email address etc)
Once your registration is confirmed, you get to pick your lucky five numbers (1-50), as well as another two numbers (from 1-9)
Once you've made your selection, you order the ticket with your credit card, as you're obviously playing over the internet. If you don't have a credit card, now would be a good time to get a free Virgin Money card. Spoil yourself, the interest rate will drop soon, I promise.
And that's it. With your winnings, feel free to buy me some champagne or even a beer when you see me slurring at the bar.
You will certainly be able to afford it.
Unless you're going to be one of those reclusive, stingy, rich arseholes that you occasionally read about in lifestyle magazines. The ones that are "eccentric" and continue to drive their little Ford Escort, whilst still working as an office clerk because they "don't know how to live any other way".
Shit, if I won the jackpot, no one would ever hear from me again. And that includes family and friends. Okay, in al honesty, I would probably just disappear for about a year, then have a movie made about it, starring Tom Cruise and Patricia Lewis. I don't really know where Patricia would fit in yet, but I've always wanted to see her on the big screen. In a skimpy gold bikini.
Tuesday Night. Tiger Tiger, Claremont. The Brand Ambassador and myself have just polished off a bottle of Pongracz and, being greedy, a second bottle has found it's way to us. It proves to be a bit heavy though and so we look for some angels to share the second bottle, as we're not quite sure we can manage, and that would just be embarrassing.
[Shaun approaches four pretty angels at the bar]
Me: Hello there, ladies. Are we all having a great time tonight? Obnoxious Girl In Group: Oh Godddddd.... Me: Excuse me, princess. I wasn't speaking to you. I don't care whether you're having a great time. Run along now. I'm busy talking to your hot friends. Obnoxious Girl In Group:Excuse me? Me: You heard me. Obnoxious Girl In Group: You're a f**king arsehole. Me: Whatever, Trevor. Obnoxious Girl In Group: What did you just say? Me: I said, "Whatever, Trevor." Obnoxious Girl In Group: Did you just call me "Trevor"? Me: No, it's just a saying. Obnoxious Girl In Group: Whatever. Me: Trevor. Obnoxious Girl In Group: Please stop. That's not clever or amusing. Me: Anyhoo... so as I was saying... Impatient Girl In Group: Jesus, what do you want? Me: Well, if you stop interrupting me, maybe I can tell you. Impatient Girl In Group: Well? Me: You've put me off my game now. Give me a second. Let me collect my thoughts. Obnoxious Girl In Group: You're not very good at this. Me: Get off my case, I have a lot on my mind right now. Impatient Girl In Group: Please hurry up and do your pitch, there are three other guys behind you waiting to speak to us. Me: Okay, my friend and I were showing off earlier and we now have too much champagne. Would you like to take it off our hands? Hot Girl In Group: We're not drinking tonight. Me: You're not drinking tonight? Hot Girl In Group: We're not drinking tonight. Me: You have a Smirnoff Spin in your hand. Hot Girl In Group: That doesn't count as a drink. Impatient Girl In Group: We don't drink champagne. Obnoxious Girl In Group: We also think you're weird. And you dance badly. Go away.
[Shaun takes the walk of shame back to the other side of the bar.]
As A Massacre Is Celebrated By The Weird Looking Olympic Mascots.
Oops, I Think Someone In Yahoo's IT Department Is Going To Get Fired For This.
I stumbled across this whilst searching for Chinese soft-core pornography (it's for a research project I'm doing about Chinese soft-core pornography)
Apparently this caused a bit of a ruckus on the "internet". Amid all the controversy however, people seem to be overlooking the most important aspect of this story - namely, what the f*ck are those mascots all about?
Judging by their colours, I THINK they are supposed to represent the five rings of the Olympic logo, which in itself is supposed to represent the five continents of the world - Africa, North America, South America, Asia and Europe.
And before you all write in, YES I know that Australia isn't included in all this, but when the logo was originally created, Christopher Columbus hadn't discovered Australia yet, and by the time he had, the International Olympic Committee had already paid millions to the graphic design agency for their concept (the same company that did Pick n Pay's new logo, interestingly enough)
I can't quite work out what they are supposed to be though (Chinese emperors? Teletubby knock offs with birds on their heads?) but I dig the poses they are whipping out.
Note the Blue and Green guys with their classic muscle poses you used to do as a kid whilst watching Hulk Hogan on WWF wrestling. The Black guy is doing the old sexual climax stance, just before you realise that you may have impregnated your girlfriend because you "didn't feel like" wearing a condom. The Red dude is running his hand through his hair, because he knows he is way cooler than the other guys, and is probably secretly sleeping with all their girlfriends. The Yellow guy is going "What the f*ck?", as he thought this was an audition for an action movie starring Jackie Chan, and is now contemplating having his agent eliminated.
Anyhoo, that's all we have time for today. Until next time, take care of yourself, aaaand each other.
[Applause and roll credits, as Shaun shakes the hands of everyone in the audience]
It was Friday, which meant it was time for Some Other Guy and myself to have our weekly meeting down at Beluga at the Foundry, which consists of us getting hammered on their cocktails, whilst gorging ourselves on their sushi specials.
Have you tried it yet?
It's good.
It's so good I would probably have sex with it if I could, but I can't because I'm slightly intimidated by the sexual vibe it gives off. It's sexy sushi, and now I've used the word "sex" or it's derivative four times in the last paragraph, which probably means the staff at ForwardSlash won't be able to read this again.
Whilst staggering out toward the car park - where our Zimbabwean driver Ignacious sat patiently outside the car - you remember my personal assistant Ignacious? F*cking legend, although I have noticed a bit of attitude on his part since Zimbabwe slashed ten zeros off their currency - he just bought a penthouse flat in Harare thanks to the ten shoe boxes of coins he kept under my Klooftique couch. He used to live under that couch as well, but now he thinks he's better than all that. The other day when I paid him his wages, he insisted on a tot of Jameson, rather than his usual Three Ships. I mean REALLY now, someone seems to be acting above his station.
Anyhoo, I'm going off on a tangent here. Let's keep focus on the subject at hand.
We had just finished a very productive meeting, and as we both slithered our way toward the car, I noticed a familiar sight. The fuzzy hair, crooked smile and thievingly long fingers of the model on the window looked like someone I knew. Then it dawned on me, it resembled Some Other Guy, who was casually wadding on beside me.
"Some Other Guy," I screamed in delight, "isn't that you over there?"
He turned slowly, like the chick with the large breasts would do in a horror film when the guy with the hook is standing behind her, about to chop her head off, and said "Ja, it does sort of look like me."
We didn't have a camera with us, but luckily a photographer from the Daily Voice just happened to be coming toward us, and graciously agreed to take the picture. Then, using a fairly complicated procedure called "email", he sent it to us over the "internet".
"Howzat!" I said when I saw the photograph in my "Inbox".
"Not out." said the umpire, and then walked off to have a tuna sarmie.
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